Grab the Cup!
by SilverCookieDust
Summary: Or "What Would have Happened if Harry or Cedric had a Brain in Their Heads". An alternate ending to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, but with no less tragedy. Rated T for themes of death and a really ugly Voldemort-baby-thing.


**Grab the Cup!**  
><em>Or "What Would have Happened if Harry or Cedric had a Brain in Their Heads"<em>

**Summary:** An alternate ending to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, but with no less tragedy.

_Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way and he fell forwards; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head._

_"Where are we?" he said._

_Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around._

_They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously travelled miles – perhaps hundreds of miles – for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside._

_Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry._

_"Did anyone tell you the Cup was a Portkey?" he asked._

_"Nope," said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. "Is this supposed to be part of the task?"_

_– Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Thirty-Two_

"No," Cedric replied, drawing his wand and glancing around them nervously. "No, I'm pretty sure a Portkey to a creepy as hell graveyard is NOT part of the task, and I really think we should get back to Hogwarts."

Harry drew his own wand, swallowing thickly. Cedric was right. Wherever they were, he felt sure they weren't meant to be there. He wasn't sure if it was just because he was standing in a graveyard in God only knew where, during the middle of the night, but there were goosebumps on his skin and he had a deep sense of foreboding.

"How are we supposed to get back?" he asked, then, "What's that? I think I see someone."

A figure drew near from between the gravestones, short and cloaked with their hood up, and carrying something in their arms.

Cedric grabbed Harry's wrist. "Grab the Cup!"

He didn't have much choice. Cedric jerked him down by the wrist and Harry heard a high, cold voice rasp, "Kill him!" and then his palm was pressed against the Cup's handle and he instinctively curled his fingers around it even as his scar exploded with agonising pain.

A familiar voice screeched. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

A jet of green light rushed towards them at the same time as the now familiar sensation of the portkey jerking his navel, and the graveyard disappeared in a whirl of wind and colour.

_Later, in Dumbledore's Office_

Harry stared at the edge of Dumbledore's claw-footed desk, unable to meet the old man's eyes. Four floors below them, Cedric Diggory's body lay on a bed in the hospital wing, covered with a white sheet whilst his parents mourned beside him. The rest of the students were back in their dormitories, with the Beauxbaton and Durmstrang students back in their carriage and ship respectively.

No one was entirely sure what had happened. The man everyone believed to be Alastor Moody had vanished shortly after Harry and Cedric's return, but a search of his office had revealed a stash of Polyjuice Potion and the _real_ Alastor Moody locked in the imposter's trunk. After being checked out by Madam Pomfrey, Moody told Dumbledore how he'd been attacked and imprisoned by none other than Barty Crouch Jr. The castle had been searched, but no one had been surprised that Crouch was nowhere to be found.

The house-elf Winky had been interviewed, revealing the story of how Barty Crouch Sr. had snuck his son out of Azkaban. The Aurors were now on the hunt for the fugitive Death Eater but the public hadn't been informed; the Ministry had squashed the story with impressive fervour, desperate to avoid embarrassment and the inevitable public outcry the story would bring.

Harry had just told Dumbledore what had happened after he and Cedric had grabbed the Triwizard Cup in the maze. Since returning he'd done nothing but go over it in his head, repeating those brief minutes over and over again. It didn't help the overwhelming feelings of dejection, despair and confusion that he had, but he had been able to figure out why the second voice he'd heard had seemed so familiar. He was almost certain it belonged to Wormtail, the man who'd betrayed his parents to Voldemort.

The first voice he didn't even have to think about. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that it had come from Voldemort, he just didn't know _how_. The last time he'd seen Voldemort, it'd been a memory of his younger self, bought to life through a magical diary that'd almost killed Ginny Weasley. That memory version had died when Harry stabbed the diary with a basilisk fang, however.

But the real Voldemort was little more than a ghost. Harry had met him once, three years ago, when Voldemort was possessing Professor Quirrell, one of their previous Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers. Quirrell was dead and with nothing to hold onto Voldemort had been forced to return to his life as a parasitic spirit thing. Was it possible he'd found a way to come back? Dumbledore had said before that there were ways – had Voldemort done it? Harry hadn't seen him in the graveyard, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. Or had he been the thing in Wormtail's arms?

"I believe," Dumbledore said quietly when Harry asked about it, "that Voldemort intended to return to his former self tonight."

Harry raised his eyes. Dumbledore meet his gaze, his own blue orbs noticeably absent of the twinkle of that so often graced his eyes. He looked old, Harry thought, older than usual.

"There is a potion that can resuscitate, so to speak, those in a state of near death. It is one of the darkest magics on our earth, and requires three key ingredients – the bone of the father, the flesh of the servant … and the blood of the enemy," he finished softly.

Harry didn't know how to react to that. Voldemort had intended to kill him in order to resurrect himself. Voldemort had no greater enemy than Harry himself and Wormtail was his servant, though Harry had no idea how Voldemort would get his father's bone. Had the man been secreted away somewhere in the graveyard? Was his father, a Muggle, even still alive?

Not that it mattered now. Harry had got away so whatever Voldemort had been planning, he couldn't do it. But, Harry thought suddenly, Professor Trelawney had predicted Voldemort's return. Towards the end of last year, she had made a genuine prophecy telling of Wormtail rejoining his master, but also of Voldemort's return: _The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever before_.

A cold chill ran down his spine at the thought. Had Trelawney's prophecy been averted? They'd never studied real prophecies in Divination class so he knew nothing about them. Without Harry's blood, would Voldemort be unable to rise again or would he simply find another way? Even with the knowledge of the prophecy and a time-turner, Harry and Hermione had been unable to stop Wormtail from escaping and returning to Voldemort. And three years ago Dumbledore had said that there were other ways – plural – for Voldemort to get back his power. Did that mean that Harry's escape tonight had only pushed back Voldemort's return yet again?

He didn't want to ask. He wanted to go back to Gryffindor, crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He was exhausted, drained physically from the maze and emotionally from everything that had happened since. He didn't want to think about the fact that Cedric Diggory was dead, about the possibility of Voldemort coming back, or about anything at all in fact.

But he knew he had to. If Voldemort was coming back, Harry needed to know. Voldemort wanted Harry dead and if Harry had learnt anything since being at Hogwarts, it was that he inevitably ended up fighting battles he didn't want to fight. If Voldemort came back, he'd be coming for Harry and Harry wasn't going to let himself be caught off guard.

"Professor, Voldemort's still out there, isn't he? He's still going to try and come back."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I doubt he will stop until he either succeeds or dies trying."

"He'll probably succeed, won't he?"

"With Barty Crouch to help him now as well as Wormtail, I'm afraid you're right, Harry," Dumbledore agreed with a weary sigh. "There are other methods for him to use, but with the Philosopher's Stone destroyed this potion is the best option he has. I believe he wanted to use your blood, Harry, because it would enable him to overcome the protection afforded you by your mother's love. You remember, no doubt, the harm inflicted upon Voldemort when you touched the possessed Professor Quirrell? With your blood," he continued when Harry nodded, "he would be able to touch you without feeling that pain. It would be a very useful advantage for him."

"Will he try again?"

"No," Dumbledore answered assuredly. "For all his many flaws, Voldemort is not a fool. He won't try to get you again, Harry. I suspect he will find another enemy – he certainly has many – to assist in his return to power. Voldemort's plans may have been thwarted tonight, but I believe it will not be long before he returns and the wizarding world shall once again face a terrible darkness."

_Meanwhile in Little Hangleton_

Crouch apparated into the graveyard with a crack made all the louder for being the only sound within a mile. He slunk between the headstones in search of his master, having already checked the old mansion where the Dark Lord had been residing for the last year. It had been empty and Crouch could only assume his master and that snivelling rat Wormtail were still at the graveyard, though he couldn't fathom why.

He was almost reluctant to be here. He had failed his master. The Potter boy had returned from inside the maze unharmed and Crouch knew that his master had not been returned to his former glory as he should have been. Most likely this was due to Wormtail's ineptitude, but that didn't excuse Crouch. Crouch had done his best, but he knew the Dark Lord would place just as much blame on him for tonight's failure.

He found Wormtail first. He was dead, his body sprawled on the ground and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his face screwed up in fear. Crouch kicked him, sneering, and moved on. His master was not far away, a small, ugly creature wrapped in tatty black robes. He lay curled on his side, encircled by his massive snake Nagini, who hissed unpleasantly as Crouch approached.

The Dark Lord lifted his head with obvious effort, saw Crouch and struggled to sit up. Crouch hurried forward to assist him but his master hissed angrily and Crouch stopped short. Once the Dark Lord had got himself upright, he lifted his reed-eyes to glare at Crouch, who hurriedly dropped to his knee and bowed his head.

"My servants," the Dark Lord said in a murmur that didn't quite hide the difficulty he had in catching his breath, "have both failed me tonight."

"I apologise most sincerely, my Lord," Crouch said, head still bowed. "I give no excuse and -"

"Silence!" the cold voice hissed, and Crouch snapped his jaws shut. "Wormtail has already … already paid … for his mistakes. You … will also pay … Crouch."

Crouch shut his eyes but nodded. "Of course, my Lord. I deserve no mercy."

The Dark Lord laughed, a cold, merciless noise broken when he had to gasp for breath. "Only the weak … grant mercy. But I … I am not weak … not in my mind. My body, however … has certain needs. You … will help me, Crouch."

Crouch opened his eyes and lifted his head ever so slightly, just enough to look at his master. Would he be granted his life?

"I cannot … survive alone. Not yet." The Dark Lord paused, sucking in a large gulp of air. It was clear that he was far weaker than anytime Crouch had seen him before and it made his heart ache to see his master in such a state.

"You will … care for me … Crouch. Take … me to the … house and … feed me. When I … when I am stronger … we will discuss … plans."

Crouch nodded and cautiously reached for his master, constantly weary of the circling snake. Nagini watched him but made no move to attack, and once Crouch had his master off the ground he headed towards the edge of the graveyard and in the direction of the mansion. He was eternally grateful to his master for sparing his life and silently vowed to ensure that their next plan, whatever it may be, would succeed. Wormtail may have failed their Lord, but Crouch would do everything possible to make sure that Lord Voldemort returned to his former self stronger and more powerful than ever before.

**_fin_**


End file.
